


Try, Try Again

by Whreflections



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Desperation Play, Dom Will Graham, Dom/sub, Gentle Dom Will Graham, M/M, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Sub Hannibal Lecter, Urination, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 21:04:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13326336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: Will is after a very specific kind of control, and he's going to keep walking Hannibal through his paces until he finds it.  They've broken a lot, together, but Will doesn't want to break him, not entirely...taking him apart and putting him back together, though, might be the only way they can keep moving.





	Try, Try Again

**Author's Note:**

> This is, apparently, what happens when I'm not feeling good and can't sleep, so I write some porn to help lol Medicinal porn XD 
> 
> This was never my kink; I DIDN'T EVEN GO HERE but this ship has done things to me and now I go almost everywhere. *throws hands up* 
> 
> In more positive news, calendar work is still continuing, but will soon be interspersed with updates for AATAT. wooo <3 Also, I'm working on a fic for Valentine's that will be a long oneshot, and I think you guys will love it. Fingers crossed.

The first time, Will almost smiled as he corrected him—even distracted as he was, Hannibal could see it in the corner of his eyes, feel the shape of it in the less-sharp _No, Hannibal_ that left his lips. 

Will shook his head, arms crossing over his chest.  His shirt was half open, his sleeves rolled up.  The islands agreed with him.  He looked stronger, healthier, more beautiful every day.

“When I say you’re going to be holding it until you piss yourself, Hannibal, I don’t mean until you decide to piss.  There’s a difference.” 

There was a gleam in Will’s eyes, just there, that should have told him he would eventually lose, but Will’s arms unfolded, and his hand pressed to the dampness of Hannibal’s belly, and he was distracted. 

He opened his mouth, and Will pressed down with the heel of his hand, and spoke again.

“We’re going to be doing this until you get it right.”

*****

The second time, Hannibal waited until he could feel tremors in his thighs.  He had not reached this point for many years, but it was a sign he knew—once muscle tremors set in, even his carefully cultivated control couldn’t get him much more than another hour before his body gave out.

The point was near, but he could put on a show for Will, still, if he struggled. 

Hannibal focused on his breathing, narrowed his mind to the pressure between his hips—the ache in his bladder, the tremor in his legs, the throb of his cock.  It had gone half soft in its confusion between his needs, but it twitched as allowed the first spurt of piss to slip free, tracking across his belly, down to his hip. 

Stopping was a shaper pain than he remembered, and he arched into it, swallowing heavily.  Sharp, but it would be easier the second time, now that he was more prepared.  When Alana had taken his toilet, he hadn’t tried his own limits like this.  It had been years since he tested himself,  back when he was young and searching out every limit his body possessed, every secret he might need to know, and hold close. 

From his station at the end of the bed, Will rose and came to him, fingers sure and strong as he reached out to squeeze Hannibal’s cock. 

“Wrong,” he said, and the fondness was there, still, but with a thread of violence that Hannibal felt like a tug from his heart to his mind to his fluttering urethra. 

Hannibal’s body shivered, and he let loose a trickle against the pad of Will’s thumb, a soft sound rising from his throat to chase it when that thumb pressed down. 

“You waited longer, but you’re still controlling it.  You still aren’t listening.”

“You forget I’ve had recent practice on doing it properly.”

“I haven’t forgotten that you wore diapers because you pissed Alana off; when we try out ageplay, the way you piss a diaper might be relevant.”  It was just as well, really, that Hannibal had no ready response.  His cock filled further in Will’s grasp, and answered for him.  “Even that would be different from what you’re doing now.  You fill a diaper little by little by going any time you get the slightest urge; all you’re doing now is letting off a pressure valve.”  Will’s thumb pressed down against his slit, hard enough for flash of pain that didn’t last.  “We’re going to do this until it bursts.”

*****

The third time, Will tried to help him. 

He was bound standing, rather than on the bed—his legs spread wide, a vibrator inserted into him at just the right angle to press on his prostate.  He had learned, long ago, to separate the sensation of needing to go from the sensation of needing to come, but even his body wasn’t immune to crossed wires, and consistent stimulation was a hurdle even he wouldn’t be able to deny.  Eventually, he knew, the sensation would shift from strictly sexual pleasure to the pleasure/pain of insistence. 

If he was honest, wholly honest, it made his heart quicken just to anticipate it.

A year ago, two years ago, he might have dared to dream he’d be with Will, but not like this.  Not in a home on the edge of the sea where Will swam naked some mornings and others they made breakfasts together.  A few passed like this, with Will’s eyes gone dark as flint, stoked deep with fire. 

He woke Hannibal, for this, took him fresh from bed when the need would already be strong.  As he waited, Hannibal could hardly help but congratulate him for it, on breath that had already begun to hitch, his cock bobbing as the stimulation teased drips of precome from him. 

“You’ve chosen well.  I was already full, and the body is often more lax after sleep.”

“It’s pretty lax after orgasm, too.  You can come anytime you feel able.”  Will’s hands cupped his cheek, his thumb gentle as he teased Hannibal’s lips apart to take first his kiss, then the lip of a warm mug of coffee.  “Go on and drink up; caffeine irritates the bladder.” 

He drank, and felt the warmth of it down his throat, and into his stomach, and wondered for the first time what it would feel like if Will won this game.  The time in his youth when he’d tested his own limits could hardly fully be counted a loss of control, not when he’d set out to do it.  This…this was different. 

The shock of the freshly heavy settling of his realization of how fully he’d laid himself into Will’s hands hit him hard, and he came with a startled cry, his hips twitching, struggling in vain to work the vibrator deeper, or his cock forward until it touched something, _anything_ , until—

Until Will touched him again, and Hannibal felt his body sing under his palms like a plucked string.  One curved against his hip, the other against the line of his throat.  Possessive, encompassing. 

Will’s breath brushed his ear before his lips did, soft and warm.  Hannibal tucked his face against Will’s shoulder, eyes closed, and listened.

“When it happens, it’s going to hurt, but I’ll be right here.  I’ll put you back together.”

That was, of course, the point all along.

*****

It did not happen the third time, but it had shocked even Hannibal how hard he tried. 

Will took him farther than he ever had, until he’d come twice and his thighs shook and the pressure on his prostate had become only fierce nudges against his bladder, throbbing and throbbing in a form of aching pleasure he’d never given enough thought to before. 

When the tremors reached his abdomen and his breath was labored, Will took his cock and held the tip of it to an empty wine bottle.  There was infinite tenderness in the care he took easing back his foreskin, the weight of all that had built between them in this place heavy in his soft hushing when Hannibal said his name, strangled and raw.  For making it so far, he’d been given the reward of not having to do it all at once, to instead ease forward with the strange in-between of letting go with his cock in Will’s hand, the soft hissing sound of piss filling glass weaving in with the sounds of their breathing. 

He suspected, strongly, that the reward had come, too, because Will had felt the very moment he understood, the shift in him when he realized the depth of this experiment.  Not humiliation, not a whim.  Utter control, and reformation.  The beginning, perhaps, of his own metamorphosis. 

The fourth time, Hannibal practiced on his own. 

Will was out on the boat, fishing for their supper, and he was in the shower, his breath heavy, palms trembling against the tile.  If he could remember what it felt like to lose himself so utterly, perhaps—

Perhaps it would be easier, then, to deliver himself into Will’s labyrinth?

The logic was flawed, somewhere, or he’d grown too accustomed to the reassurance of Will’s hands, already so intrinsically associated with the particular pains of bladder and stress and arousal. 

He gave in and pissed kneeling over the shower drain, bathed and cooked dinner almost in silence when it arrived. 

As if he’d known (of course he’d known), Will had taken his head into his lap that night anyway, reading to him one handed, fingers tracking endlessly through his hair.  They had done nothing of this sort that day, nothing for Will to seek to bring him down from, and yet he’d known, and he’d caught him, and what better endorsement for losing himself could there be than that? 

They had learned already in falling from the cliff: the only safe place either of them had to land would only ever be found in each other. 

*****

The fifth time, Hannibal drank, and drank, until the tension in him grew so strong his cock was tenting his slacks.  He wasn’t sure Will was watching, wasn’t sure he _knew_ , though he could feel both his eyes and his knowing like a feather against his skin.

Just as he was about to reconsider, his grip shifting to rise from the chair and head to the bathroom, Will reached out and stopped him. 

“Don’t,” he asked, as calmly as he’d have asked about the dogs, or the trash, or the weather.  His fingers curled around Hannibal’s cock beneath his slacks, the heel of his palm pressing against his abdomen.  “I think you’re ready to do it today.”

If the race of his heart was any indication, Hannibal thought so, too.  It had never beat like this when he killed—not for himself, at least, only when they acted together.  In their bed, making love; on the cliff, making art.  Years ago, watching Will remake Randall Tier into what he could have been.

Now, those clever hands were on him, doing the same.  They were stripping clothes instead of skin and muscle, but broken down to intent it was the same, all the same. 

Stripped bare, Will took him to the room where he kept his toys.  As Hannibal allowed himself to be strapped down, the thought flashed in his mind, quickly, that this would be enough.  He could go along, and push himself, and likely fool Will this time. 

He could, and he might succeed, but he wouldn’t.  The caterpillar, too, could choose to stop eating and die where it was before weaving a cocoon.  Whatever they were becoming, now, Hannibal wouldn’t be the one to kill it.  Not for anything; not for this. 

The restraints, this time, were almost medical—arms and torso held down where he lay on his back, his hips at the end of the table, legs spread wide, held up, and strapped in.  Will talked to him through it, a low and steady tone that didn’t change as his palm settled heavy over Hannibal’s bladder, rubbing firm circles down with the heel of his hand.

“It’s going to take a while, but I’ll be right here.  We’ll do it together.” 

It was tempting, then, to say that _he_ wouldn’t be doing anything at all, but it wouldn’t have been honest.  What he was _not_ doing was, in this case, an act in itself.  He would let his body go, and not prevent it; he would follow Will’s whims until he crashed.  The end, beyond that, was all mystery. 

When his thighs began to shake, this time, Hannibal’s breath hit a cadence it hadn’t come close to approaching when he was branded.  Too fast, off rhythm.  The knowledge that he had decided, that he would give himself no escape, was heavy,  iron thick, pressing in the center of his chest. 

Will leaned in, fingers tickling through his chest hair, and kissed the base of his cock, slow and lingering, chased with the barest nip of teeth.  “It’s alright, Hannibal.  It’s going to get worse.” 

It would, he knew, and when it did, he felt it distinctly.  An ache, rhythmic and stabbing, the powerful urge to squeeze his legs together, to press his hand to the base of his cock, to let out just a little bit.  Restless, he tossed his head, and found Will waiting for him.  He tried, desperately, to give himself over to the sweet delve of Will’s tongue and the beauty of his familiar taste, but the urge to focus himself only on keep control wrenched him back from their kiss all too soon.  His mouth was distractingly damp; he could feel sweat beading at his hairline. 

Will stroked him, collarbone to balls, as lazy and measured and constant as he might pet any of the dogs at rest at his side.  The association likely should not have made Hannibal’s cock bob quite so fiercely. 

Hannibal’s head tipped back, the view behind his eyelids red.  “Before it’s going to happen, should I—“

“When it happens, you aren’t going to know beforehand.  It’ll hit you, but then it’ll be happening.  Believe me, I won’t be able to miss it.” 

At a better time, he might have managed to show through his eyes at least that the joke was distasteful. 

He was jerked forcefully out of considering his response by the sucking heat of Will’s mouth on his nipple, pressure lined with the soft sting of his teeth.  It was too much, too sharp a sensation to bear when so much of his thought centered between his legs.  He cried out, his body jerking against his bonds, struggling all the more fiercely when Will pressed down against his belly and gentled his suckling.  Tender, almost like a nursing babe.  Rhythmic, like Hannibal’s need for release. 

“Will,” he whispered, the strain in his own voice a fresh shock.  “Will, please.” 

Will smiled against his skin, rested his chin against the freshly sensitive peak of his nipple to give Hannibal the uniquely distracting rasp of his beard.  “It’s alright.  I’m just helping.” 

Distantly, clinically, it was interesting to feel time pass, to mark the moment his urges turned to honest pain, shooting and constant.  His body was giving over control of lesser functions, sharpening focus.  The muscular tension was so strong his feet trembled with it, quivering suspended. 

Will stepped between his legs and began to finger him, slow and steady, in and out. 

Hannibal clenched around him, his head shaking twice before he found his words.  “I can’t.  It’s too much.” 

“You can hold it a little longer.  Just keep trying.”  Will’s fingers crooked, teasing his prostate.  In jerking up against his bonds the pressure of the strap against his belly nearly undid him, a rough and wounded noise rushing out before he could catch it.  His eyes were closed, but the sound Will made in answer rang more of pride.  “See?  You only lost a little.  You can hold it while I fuck you.” 

In truth, he’d barely felt the spurt he’d released against his belly; there was too much pain, too much pressure to distinguish such a small slip.  He’d been half sure it was precome, or he’d hoped.  Knowing it wasn’t brought heat to his cheeks, his heartbeat rising, and rising, only leveling when Will’s hand touched the inside of his thigh. 

“Look at me, Hannibal.”

His eyes opened, held as fully by the strings strung down this man’s throat as every other part of him.  Their eyes met, and Hannibal’s lungs filled slowly, a long breath that made Will smile. 

“That’s it.  You’re doing so well.  I wish you could see how you look right now.”  A third finger pressed inside him, inexorable, dripping wet with lube.  “You’re so strung out.  A little wild, like you haven’t yet decided if you’re going to run.”

“I’m not.”

“I know.”  Will’s fingers slipped free, his hands a little rougher than usual as he gripped Hannibal’s ass, spreading it wide.  Rough for the purpose of jostling him, shifting the pressure inside him, distracting him with touch.  “Open up, Hannibal; you’re too tight.  You’re going to have to relax or I can’t fuck you.”

Hannibal caught his cheek between his molars, crushed down until he tasted blood.  The throbbing that had risen as his hips were shifted didn’t subside.  He was hyper aware of the tip of his cock, resting against his belly—the distension of his bladder, a small, round rise below the slight protrusion of his stomach.  There was nothing there he could safely loosen; nothing at all. 

“I can’t.  You can do it anyway, just push—“

“I won’t hurt you; that’s not how this works.  You have to let me in.”

“Will—“

Will’s thumb dragged down across his entrance, firm and deliberate.  On its heels, Hannibal felt the kiss of his cock, thick at the head with his need.  He couldn’t see, from this angle, but he could imagine it, heavy and red, formidable, and still asking, only ever asking.  Hannibal gasped, his shoulders drawn tight as he strained. 

“Just here.  Nowhere else; just here.  Let me in.  Let me have you.”

“You already do,” he said, as clear as he could manage.  As accustomed as he’d become to taking Will’s cock, it still took everything in him to relax like _this_ , with his bladder pulsing and his thighs shaking hard enough to rattle his restraints.  He failed, first, and the sensation of his hole fluttering futilely against the press of Will’s cock was so foreign he might have come from it if he’d been able. 

Will shushed him, though his sounds didn’t stop, even as he relaxed by degrees, sphincter going lax against gentle pressure his body could never refuse.  As soon as he felt give, Will pressed in hard and full, sheathing himself, taking room that wasn’t there. 

Hannibal’s cock was too soft to jerk, even with a stream of piss shooting from it, trickling up, pooling in his navel before he was able to stop the flow.  For a moment, the need remained so strong he was hardly sure he’d stopped it at all, but he could feel the pressure of Will’s cock inside him with unique intensity and far too much pain, and the knowledge settled slowly that he _was_ still holding on, if only just. 

Will fondled his limp cock, dabbing moisture off on the pad of his thumb.  It was worth it to open his eyes and see, to watch the curve of Will’s smile as he let it rest in his palm and watched it quiver. 

“I can’t believe you stopped; you just lost a little.  Look how hard it’s shaking.”

“You wanted me to wait until you’ve had me.”

“I did.  Do you think you can do it?”  He asked, and began to roll his hips, and Hannibal gave up hope of answering. 

If he could, it would only be from force of will—a strange term, when the force that was _his_ Will was at work between his legs, thrusting and teasing, Hannibal’s cock abandoned in favor of holding his hips.  There was something  transcendent about the intensity of the pain, brought on by the source and the rhythm, shot through and bolstered by the bliss of hearing Will curse beneath his breath and call him beautiful. 

He would have almost made it, perhaps, if Will hadn’t stopped. 

It seemed, at first, a shift in rhythm, but he was still too long, a stillness of concentration.  By the time Hannibal had stabilized himself enough to raise his neck to look at properly in question, the truth hit him.  Hannibal’s head fell back with a groan, and he had half a second to prepare himself before the first flush of heat hit him inside, embellished by the softest sigh of relief. 

Will’s face was lax with rapture as he pissed into him, and the fleeting thought brushed through Hannibal’s mind that though he hadn’t put himself through the same torture, he’d been holding on for some time, too.   Surely, this had been his plan all along. 

His hips jerked, a soft litany of _oh fuck, oh, Hannibal_ sifting between his breaths, the spurting heat from his cock going on, and on—almost as if he were coming for ages, but stronger, more focused, and far, far to much for Hannibal to take. 

It would be strange to him, later, that he felt Will’s piss leaking from his ass before he felt his own splashing against his stomach, the urge to let go in sympathy with what he was feeling far too strong for his body to withstand.  It was precisely the sensation Will had sought for him—an utter loss of control, his bladder beginning to empty utterly without his consent and initially without his notice.  To see if he could, he tried to stop himself, reached down and down for control, but the motion clenched his ass around Will’s cock, too, and sharpened his focus on the piss filling him up.  There was no hope, then, of stopping his own. 

It kept coming, forceful, the contractions of his bladder so fierce it felt so like orgasm that for a moment he wondered if this was, in itself, a variation of coming ‘dry’.  Whether it was was a question he didn’t have it in him to contemplate, not then, not with Will’s piss running to a trickle and his own still strong, still streaming when Will reached down to reverently cup his balls and stroke his limp cock.  Slow swipes, no sense of teasing in them, only encouragement, and reward.  

Hannibal could feel himself fading into white noise, his entire body shivering in a way that seemed to belong to someone else.  He didn’t feel cold.  He’d never felt this warm, heated from the inside, so full of Will that every drip of from his ass once Will pulled out made him itch to keep in all he'd been given. 

He whined, perhaps, or struggled to try to clench his ass, but his body was an afterthought, and he wasn’t sure.  Everything swirled, amorphous, until Will’s hands were in his hair and his mouth was on Hannibal’s, kissing deep and sure, as fiercely hot as the release inside of him had been. 

“Tell me how it felt, when you lost it.  Tell me,” Will asked against his lips, between kisses, framed with the tenderness of his teeth, the stab of his tongue. 

It was many kisses more before Hannibal had the presence for speech, before his arms were free and he could wrap them around Will’s shoulders, pins and needles rising where the straps had been, his grip both fierce and limp. 

“Like falling.”  His voice was tumbled smooth by the ordeal, weary and soft.  Whatever Will was making of him, whatever he was becoming, it was going to be wholly new. 

Will’s arms came around him, lifting him half off the table, their chests pressed together, his face buried close in Hannibal’s neck.

“It’s alright.  I’ve got you.” 


End file.
